


Keep on Wanting

by enigma731



Series: Roads I Used to Run [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint Barton's Farm, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Feels, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 16:24:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3735646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“I’m going back to Iowa,” Clint tells Natasha, on the first warm weekend of the spring. </em>
</p><p>  <em>Natasha sits up a little straighter in the corner of his couch, cupping her mug of tea in both hands and looking at the remains of their dinner strewn across his coffee table before she responds. “Permanently?”</em><br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep on Wanting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blizzardphoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blizzardphoenix/gifts).



> Huge thanks to everyone who listened to me whine about this thing for the past several week!

“I’m going back to Iowa,” Clint tells Natasha, on the first warm weekend of the spring. 

The snow’s been melting for a few days now, and she can feel the change of seasons in the air that’s coming in through the windows he’s got open. That was a customization he’d insisted Tony make to his floor of the Tower; for anyone else, it might seem precarious to have a room this high up open to the sky, but Clint’s never done well with being confined, and for him it fits perfectly.

Natasha sits up straighter in the corner of his couch, cupping her mug of tea in both hands and looking at the remains of their dinner strewn across his coffee table before she responds. “Permanently?”

It seems unlikely, but this is a situation where she’d like to begin by discounting the worst-case scenario. She’s grown accustomed to having him around again over the past year, has begun to take it for granted that his place is with the team. Still, there’s a distance between them that hasn’t quite mended since New York; she can’t always read him the way she used to.

He shakes his head, and the knot of tension she hasn’t consciously noticed growing in the pit of her stomach eases. “Just for a while. Maybe a week or so.”

“Leaving when?” asks Natasha, sipping her tea, and trying to relax her posture again. She isn’t quite sure what to make of her own insecurity, how to interpret the fact that apparently a small part of her expects him to vanish from her life again at any moment, and is decidedly not okay with that prospect. She used to be good at working alone, she tells herself, used to consider self sufficiency the most important trait she possessed. And it’s not like she’d be alone now anyway, if he left.

Clint shrugs, but the tight line of his shoulders belies the attempt at looking casual. “In the morning, I figured. Assuming there’s no global catastrophes requiring our attention overnight.”

“Okay,” she agrees, leaning forward and setting her mug down so she can face him with undivided attention. 

There’s something else, something more than just another trip to his old family home, which he’s made periodically over the past year. He’s never told her ahead of time, though, has used the place as an escape when he apparently felt the need to disappear from the reach of everyone else in his life. 

Clint says nothing, though, just holds her gaze for a long moment before looking away, moving to begin gathering up the dirty dishes on the table. That definitely isn’t like him, must mean that he feels the need to move, to occupy his hands with something non-threatening.

“Why are you telling me?” asks Natasha, because she can’t just let him leave whatever it is unspoken, can’t spend the week he’s gone with that unknown, wondering whether the secret was that he wasn’t planning to return.

Clint pauses, but keeps his gaze fixed on the plates he’s stacking. “I was thinking--seems like you keep ending up there, when I go. Maybe you should just--come along?” 

He makes a motion Natasha recognizes as the intention to disappear into the kitchen with the dishes before she can reply, stops him with a hand on his wrist. “Clint.”

When he looks up at her again, his eyes are darkened by an emotion she can’t quite parse. “I need your help. There’s--things I need to do there that I’m not sure I can do on my own.”

She offers him a gentle smile, can’t help wondering how they’ve arrived back here, uncertain around one another, like they were in the beginning. “Then I guess I’d better go pack a bag.”

* * *

Natasha has seen the house in the dead of summer, plants and soil baking under the unrelenting sun, and she’s seen it sleeping under the snow, too. But this is the first time she’s been here in spring, and she has to admit that she finds her breath a bit stolen away by the fields of wild flowers, splashes of white, and yellow, and brilliant purple spreading out on either side of the road as they make their final approach into the countryside she’s come to find familiar. 

They’ve stopped for supplies on the way, at the sort of small-town grocery store where she imagines all the locals know one another. She’s made this approach on her own every other time she’s been out to the old farm house, but she gets the sense that Clint’s got a ritual to it all now, makes exactly the same preparations in exactly the same way. She might ask him about it in the future, but for now she’s just along for the ride, feels oddly humbled that he’s allowing her to witness any of this at all.

“Have you been here since Christmas?” she asks, when they finally arrive, the wheels of the truck Clint’s rented at the airport kicking up dust as he parks off to the side of the house. Out here, there are pathways more than roads, empty grounds rather than a formal driveway. 

“Just once,” says Clint, which she had been pretty sure was the case. But she doesn’t take anything for granted with him these days. 

“Come on,” he tells her, pulling the set of old keys she now recognizes from the pocket of his jeans and climbing out of the truck.

There’s a spring in his step as he unloads, and Natasha thinks it’s only fitting that he was born here. He looks good under this strip of sun and sky, though it’s not lost on her that he’s nervous, too. She takes her share of the bags from the back and follows him up the steps of the porch, letting him take the lead in every sense here.

Clint glances at her over his shoulder as he unlocks the door, and she’s struck--not for the first time--by the simplicity of it all. There’s no elaborate technology, no alarms or biometrics, just the old brass lock and key. Isolation is its own security system out here, along with the assumption that nobody else still living would know the importance this place has for him.

Bathed in the new sunlight of spring, there’s a surprising sense of comfort to the inside of the place, splashes of buttery yellow making their way through the old curtains to bathe the walls and floor. 

Natasha finds herself smiling as she sets things down inside of the front room, feels oddly light now that she realizes she hasn’t arrived here filled with concern for him. “I like this place a lot better when it’s warm.”

“Yeah.” Clint gives her a smile of his own, though it’s a bit rueful. “Well, you’ve never exactly been a fan of the cold.” 

He pauses, then, looking around the place hesitantly, as though his plan hasn’t gone much beyond arriving here. Natasha knows him better than that, though, knows that he’ll have a reason for being here, and hopes that this time it doesn’t have to do with running away.

“I’m going to put my things upstairs,” she says carefully, because it seems like he needs a moment to find his bearings, and she trusts him enough to give him space.

* * *

The rest of the evening passes in relative quiet, with nothing but shallow conversation over dinner--Clint’s working on some new arrow tech with Tony, and he tells her the details, though the excitement in his voice doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Afterward, he disappears to the barn to shoot, and Natasha doesn’t comment. He needs the comfort more than the practice, she knows, and for a moment she wishes that running out here in the dark didn’t feel like so much of an unnecessary risk. Instead she wanders around the house for a while, like she might be able to coax secrets from the old walls, might find the key to what’s going on inside Clint’s head.

When he still hasn’t returned well after sunset, she momentarily considers going out to check on him, then thinks better of it. This is his territory, she reminds herself, and he’s been getting along just fine without her the past several years.

She’s showered and changed, halfway into bed--having given up on seeing him again until the morning--when she hears his footfalls move the floorboards in the hallway. Natasha looks up to find him standing against the doorframe in his version of pajamas, looking hesitant.

“Hi,” she says softly, turning to face him as she finishes toweling off her hair. “You need something?” It’s obvious that he does, but she’s still feeling off-balance, doesn’t want to make assumptions.

He shakes his head. “Just--You find everything you needed?”

“Yes,” says Natasha, giving him a little smile. She pauses, then makes a decision. “Stay with me tonight?” They end up in the same bed more often than not here, as if they might be back in the field, just the two of them. That kind of intimacy is scarce these days, with the others always around and their own relationship undefined and in between. 

Clint nods, slipping under the covers without another word. It isn’t until she stretches out and turns off the light that she feels him begin to relax, exhaling in the darkness as he sinks further into the mattress. Natasha shifts closer and rests her chin on his shoulder, drapes an arm across his waist. Clint hesitates again for another moment, then finds her hand with his own and laces their fingers.

“So,” she says softly, deciding she doesn’t want to wait any longer and aiming at something like levity. “What’s our mission this week? I seem to have missed the briefing.”

Clint exhales a puff of air, not quite a laugh, and shrugs against her. “Tying up loose ends?”

“For you or for the house?” she asks, running a fingertip along the smooth strip of skin between his thumb and forefinger, one of the only places on his hand that isn’t callused.

He shivers. “Both, I guess.”

“Why do you keep this place?” asks Natasha, though it’s far from the first time she’s wondered. “It just--seems painful.”

“I want to change that,” says Clint, then sighs. “It’s a part of me, right? A part of the things I couldn’t change, when I was a kid. I guess I thought--Maybe I could now.”

“So you’re here to save this place.” It makes her heart ache, speaking the words aloud. “Reclaim it as yours.”

He lets go of her hand and turns over abruptly, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

“Then I guess you’d better go to sleep,” says Natasha, letting herself settle in against him.

* * *

Natasha wakes just after dawn to an empty bed and the sound of hammering on the roof. Her first instinct ought to be one of alarm, she thinks, followed shortly by defense. It isn’t, though. Instead she shakes her head, sits up and stretches slowly, resisting the urge to move straight into a workout. There will be plenty of opportunities for exertion today, if Clint’s planning what she thinks he is.

Downstairs, the kitchen is dark until she throws open the curtains, discarding her usual caution with the knowledge that they are alone for miles out here. She hasn’t spent much time alone in this room--Clint is usually the one who prepares the food out here, as if coming back to his roots somehow awakens survival skills that lie dormant when he’s in the city. She’s familiar enough with the place to feel her way around, though. She manages a pot of coffee, finds a thermos in one of the cabinets and washes it out before filling it from the carafe. There are also bananas from their shopping trip, a can of mixed nuts and a package of muffins. Natasha throws it all into the pack she’s brought, then dresses quickly before making her way outside. 

The ladder Clint’s left leaning against the side of the house looks like it’s seen better days, but it’s far from the most precarious thing Natasha’s ever found herself climbing. Clint is still working undisturbed when she gets to the top, the sun golden on his back as he nails down a fresh shingle, patching a worn spot.

“That’s funny,” says Natasha, taking a few careful steps out onto the roof before she sits down and pulls the pack from her back. “You didn’t tell me this place had an infestation of giant woodpeckers in the spring.”

Clint snorts, finishing with his current spot and looking up at her. “Sorry. Guess it’s been a while.”

“Where did the supplies come from?” she asks, because she’s pretty sure he hasn’t had time for another trip into town.

He pauses, lands a few more precise strikes with the hammer before putting it down and running a hand through his hair, suddenly hesitant. “Couple months ago,” he admits finally.

Natasha studies him, fitting the timeline together in her mind. “So fixing up the house wasn’t actually a spur-of-the-moment decision. You’ve been planning it for a while.”

“Yeah,” says Clint, squinting at her through the bright morning glare of the sun. “Well, I guess you could say it was spur-of-the-moment last time I was here.”

“But you didn’t actually start then,” she prompts. There haven’t been any notable changes to the house since she was here at Christmas. “Why?”

He shrugs, his expression turning to one of resignation. “Guess I didn’t want to do it alone.”

“Then you should probably tell me how I can help,” says Natasha, giving him a gentle smile. She’s suspected as much as what he’s just told her, but hearing him articulate the need is somehow meaningful still. “But first, you should come here and have breakfast with me.” She unzips her bag, holding out the package of muffins.

“Damn,” Clint says appreciatively, some of the tension dropping away. “You brought me food? You _do_ know the way to my heart.” He moves carefully to sit across from her.

“I also have bananas, if you decide you want some actual nutrition,” Natasha teases, breaking one off the stem for herself.

“What’s in the thermos?” asks Clint, suddenly very interested.

She laughs. “Coffee. You think I want to deal with morning you and no caffeine?”

He gives her his best goofy grin. “Marry me, Nat. It’s fate.”

* * *

The sun has climbed higher in the sky by the time Clint comes down from the roof, apparently satisfied that his patch job will hold against the elements. Natasha has all the windows open in the house, the breeze blowing through carrying the smell of grass and fresh earth. 

She’s managed to paint most of the kitchen with supplies Clint’s instructed her to use when he finally comes in, grabs the now-tepid coffee pot, and sinks into a chair with a deep sigh. 

“There are mugs,” says Natasha, without putting down her roller, because she’s fairly certain he’s about to take a swig straight from the carafe, and that’s unacceptable whether she plans to share it or not. “I even washed the dust off a few.”

“But they’re all the way over _there_ ,” Clint grumbles, shooting a forlorn look in the direction of said mugs. 

Natasha takes a moment to finish the last swath of wall, then climbs down off the chair she’s been using as a step stool, sets the roller carefully back into its tray, then delivers a mug to him at the table.

Clint grins up at her. “This place has great service.”

Ordinarily she’d be suppressing the urge to strangle him right about now, but Natasha can’t deny that she’s _missed_ his dry humor, missed seeing his eyes look so bright. 

“It does,” she agrees, gesturing to the freshly-painted walls. “Speaking of which, are you going to help me or am I going to paint this whole house for you?”

He shrugs, sipping his coffee. “Don’t know. Kind of enjoying watching you.”

“Come on, farm boy,” says Natasha, planting a hand on her hip and eying him, knowing he’ll read it as exactly the sort of challenge he’s never been able to resist. 

Clint snorts, draining his mug in a single long swallow. “Should I say _as you wish_?”

“Yes,” she answers. “And then you should get off your ass and do as I wish.”

He laughs openly at that, setting his now-empty mug on the table and getting to his feet. “Okay. So, painting.” He runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up at odd angles, as if he might have just stuck his fingers into an electric socket.

“Looks like I’ve exhausted the walls that can be done without moving furniture,” she points out, inclining her head toward the old kitchen table, and the refrigerator that looks as though it’s probably a relic from the 70s. 

“Natasha,” says Clint, in the tone that means one of his most insufferable jokes is forthcoming, “are you asking me if I want to move the furniture with you?” He waggles his eyebrows.

“Yes,” she says evenly, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. There’s something positively surreal about all of this--just the two of them, alone out here, laughing as though the past three years might not have happened at all. She wants to bottle it up, seize this moment and hold onto it forever, keep it for when the next wave of tragedy inevitably strikes.

“Sounds dirty,” he taunts, moving to slide the refrigerator out from the wall, contemplating the length of its cord for a moment before apparently deciding to unplug it altogether. They don’t have much inside of it, and the supplies there will keep for a few hours. 

* * *

The shadows are beginning to lengthen into late afternoon by the time they make it upstairs, into the bedroom where they’ve been staying, with the paint. It’s Clint’s old room, she knows, though he hasn’t made any specific comments about that on this trip. The air up here seems more emotionally charged, more steeped in memory and history than the rest of the house, and they still have the old master bedroom to do before the painting’s complete. Clint seems to have settled into a rhythm with the work, though, still seems steadier than she’s seen him in years.

“Watch out,” says Natasha, as she carefully crawls around his feet to paint the next section of the baseboard trim while he continues to do the wall over her head, the tarp they’ve put down crackling with her movements. It’s the first thing she’s said aloud in a few hours, and there’s a peculiar comfort in that, too, in being able to simply exist in silence with him, the way they always used to.

Clint takes a step back, moving out of her way as he dips his roller into the paint tray again. Natasha isn’t paying much attention, is absorbed in her task, so it’s a shock when a splatter of paint lands on her back, the cool wetness seeping through the thin fabric of her t-shirt immediately. 

She sucks in a breath, looking up at Clint, who’s standing with his roller frozen in mid-air, continuing to drip paint, this time onto his threadbare jeans.

“Clint,” says Natasha, more a question than a rebuke, because really she probably ought to have expected this to get messy a lot sooner than it has, though she’s come to count on absolute precision from him in most things.

He shrugs, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Occupational hazard?”

“Oh, is it now?” she asks, not missing how pleased he looks with this whole thing. “Because I don’t think that was in my contract.”

“Should’ve read the fine print,” Clint says glibly, showering her with more paint as he lifts the roller back toward the wall. 

“Clint!” she says again, more sharply this time, because _that_ definitely wasn’t an accident.

“Sorry,” he tells her, in a tone that means he’s anything but, “just can’t seem to control this thing.”

Natasha stands up in one fluid motion, dragging the brush she’s been using for the trim along his pant leg as she does, leaving a long yellow stripe in its wake.

“Sorry,” she echoes on the same unrepentant note. “Clumsy me.”

“Oh, you want a fight?” asks Clint, grinning. “I can give you a fight.”

Natasha doesn’t respond with words, just ducks out from under the roller he’s still got raised above her head. She isn’t quite fast enough, though, and he manages to paint a long streak down her lower back and ass. She spins around quickly and throws her brush at his chest like it might be a dagger, leaving a spatter of yellow over his heart.

Clint’s roller’s gone too dry to fling any more paint, so he stabs it toward the paint tray on the floor to refuel. Natasha uses that moment to sweep the handle of the thing with a well-placed kick, knocking it out of his fingers. He’s still laughing when she closes the distance between them, plants a hand against his sternum and shoves him backward against a section of wall that’s still dry, pinning his arms. 

“Okay,” Clint gasps, laughing so hard he’s red in the face. “Okay, I surrender.”

There’s warmth in his eyes when she meets them again, pure joy and something a bit like reverence. For a moment he simply stands there, transfixed, paint smudged on his cheek, hair an utter disaster, looking at her as if he’s just found salvation. Natasha feels a swell of affection for him at the same time her stomach twists with the realization that she can’t remember the last time she saw him this happy, wants to keep him this way always.

“I accept,” says Natasha. She lets go of his arms and reaches out to wipe the paint off his face with the pad of her thumb, then leans in and kisses him very gently. He makes a soft sound of raw pleasure against her mouth, his hands coming up to rest on her hips. 

“Natasha,” he breathes, equal parts a question and a plea. 

“Hi,” she whispers, letting her hand linger against the side of his face. 

“Hi,” he echoes, everything about him seeming uncertain, suddenly, the cautious longing that seems to radiate from him making her heart ache. “What are you--”

Natasha silences him with the brush of a fingertip against his lips, knows she needs to do this right, needs to be absolutely sure. They’ve been hanging on the brink of this moment for so long now--years, if she’s honest with herself--but feeling the void his distance has left in her life, seeing him here now moving forward, has finally banished the last of her doubts.

“You came back here because you wanted to make this place yours,” she says softly, his breath warm against her fingertips. “You wanted a future for it. And you invited me here because you wanted me to be a part of that. I want that for us, too. I want you.”

Clint exhales in a rush, his hands tangling in the hem of her shirt as he pulls her in for another kiss. Natasha groans happily against his lips, breathes in his scent mixed with the sweetness of sunlight and spring. He takes a step away from the wall, lifts his arms eagerly for her when she tugs his shirt up and off. Underneath, his torso is peppered with fading bruises--always has been, as long as she’s known him--but beyond that he looks the best, the most at peace, she’s seen him in years.

Natasha strips off her own shirt next, which Clint takes as an invitation to steal another kiss. He makes short work of the clasp on her bra, and she shrugs out of it, then goes straight for his belt buckle. This part is familiar; she remembers it from the early years of their relationship, when fucking off the adrenaline high was just another thing that happened in the field, before any of this got so complicated. 

“Wait,” says Clint, as she shoves his pants and boxers down.

Natasha freezes, meeting his eyes cautiously, wondering whether she’s miscalculated, allowed herself to become too lost in this moment. “Yeah?”

Clint shakes his head, then smiles warmly. “Just--slow down, yeah?”

She nods, takes a step back and decides to let him lead, see where he’ll take things. 

“Come here,” he breathes, taking her hand and leading her to the bed, pausing to help her out of her jeans before he motions for her to lie back. 

Her heart is fluttering against her rib cage as she settles onto the mattress, feeling vulnerable in a way she isn’t sure she’s ever quite allowed herself before. She can sense the fragility of this thing that’s unfolding between them, knows it’s a risk, but that isn’t about to stop her from taking it. 

“Damn,” says Clint, kissing her lips as he moves to balance on his forearms above her, definitely showing off more than a little. “ _Damn._ You have any idea how long I’ve wanted to do this?”

“Yes,” Natasha says sweetly, smiling up at him. “I think I do.”

* * *

Later, when she gets out of the shower, the breeze still blowing in through the open windows smells like impending twilight. Clint headed downstairs nearly half an hour ago, leaving her to enjoy the rare indulgence of hot water, steam, and nowhere pressing to be. 

She’s made it all the way through dressing and taming her hair before the little vase on the side of Clint’s old dresser catches her eye. It’s filled with fresh cut wildflowers she recognizes from the front of the property--yellow, white, and brilliant red. Natasha sucks in a breath as she leans closer, letting the exquisite beauty of them sink in. 

After a moment, she picks up the vase and carries it down the stairs, gradually becoming aware that the house smells of fresh coffee brewing, drowning out what’s left of the paint fumes. 

Clint is sitting at the kitchen table when she finds him, a screwdriver in his hand and what looks like the innards of an ancient VCR strewn across the surface in front of him.

“Run into trouble on your own down here?” Natasha teases, because she’s relatively certain the thing he’s gutting is never going back together in any sort of functional way.

“There’s a tape stuck,” says Clint, his brow furrowed in concentration as he pokes the screwdriver at another piece before giving up and setting it down. His expression turns almost shy as he looks up at her, catches sight of what she’s holding.

Natasha doesn’t miss the question in his eyes, the longing for this all to be real.

“Too much?” he asks, cocking his head toward the vase.

She shakes her head and sets the flowers on the edge of the table. “I love them.”

“Oh, good,” says Clint, swallowing visibly.

Natasha holds his gaze for a moment longer, then selects a flower--red, with a long stem--from the vase. She shakes the wetness from its leaves, then reaches out and tucks the flower behind his ear.

Clint gives her a bewildered look. “What are you doing?”

“Redecorating,” says Natasha, pulling out the chair opposite his and taking a seat.

He laughs at that, but doesn’t make any move to get rid of his new head piece. “So--what now?”

Natasha looks around the kitchen, looks at him, and thinks about the future stretched ahead of her like a carpet of wildflowers. 

“I like it here,” she says simply. “I think I’ll stay awhile.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is greatly appreciated but please DO NOT leave me comments with spoilers for Age of Ultron! Thanks. :)


End file.
